Small Mercies
by LeCastor
Summary: ALTERNATE FUTURE: Sandor Clegane kisses an older Sansa during the sack of the Aerye. Written at a friend's request. ONE SHOT.


She was older, now. There had been so much in her life – so much grief and so many disappointments.

She carried the babe on her hip, cuddled it gently as she walked around the keep. She was, now and forever, Alayne Stone, mother to a little Eddard Stone who'd been made like a whole in the ground is made, without love, tenderness or even a shred of humanity. She never spoke of his father, and perhaps she also managed not to think of him.

Her steps took her to the sept, and again, she prayed, like she did in another life, a million years ago. She did not know what she prayed for, but there she was all the same, wishing someone would take her away from her solitary confines and gave her a chance to keep the babe safe from harm.

Against her bosom, the little one wailed, and she sighs, moving out of the public eye, to return to her chambers. She had no wet nurse, no amethyst hairnet, no gold cloaks to treat her like a lady. She was only a bastard daughter, one to be kept and cared for as one does a tolerated dog. Sometimes, she wondered if that was the way Jon Snow had felt. Most of the time, though, she did not think at all. It was as if she waited for something to happen.

It happened, indeed, too fast and too brash for her to really know the mechanics of the clansmen's attack. They broke into the halls, savagely, and the noise of the fighting made her jump to her feet and scramble to what shadows she could find, the mewling baby still at her breast.

It didn't matter who was the lord of the keep. They came and went, and she served them, hoping only that the one they called the lisping goat would not be next to rule her life. She'd heard the tales.

Behind her, the door to the vestry opened, and a large figure emerged. She gasped, shook in her shoes, unable to move as he strode over.

His raspy voice must have been the most melodious sound she ever heard.

"Keep that babe quiet if you want to live," the Hound told her without so much as a greeting. "There isn't much time."

The rest happened through a haze of confusion. She vaguely remembered the baby suckling at her tit as she walked in Sandor's wake, too terrified for questions. There were stairs, more and more of them, until he picked her up under the knees like a precious package and all but jumped five steps at a time in the nigh utter darkness. Then there was nothing, but the child sleeping in her arms and the sensation of being carried, for a while.

She opened her eyes in a cave, dark and damp, though a small fire tempered the chilling humidity and colored the murky smell of moss with the more human, more reassuring scent of coal. He was sitting by the fire, her back to her.

"Hound?" He didn't turn, just made a quiet sound. "Hush. The babe's sleeping."

She stood and came to sit by him. The child looked like a mouse in Sandor's arms, but it was sleeping peacefully in the Hound's arms.

"I thought you were dead."

He groaned, then. "Your sister probably does too. Couldn't finish the job, though."

There was a flash of discontent in her face, before she schooled her features to nothingness. "That doesn't answer my question, Hound."

"Does it?" He snorted, then, and his eyes strayed to the sleeping infant. "I thought you were a virgin," he grunted in response.

"Maybe I am," she replied without emotion.

"You're sixteen, now, aren't you?"

"Seventeen. Why are you asking a lady her age, Sandor Clegane?"

He shrugged, and in response the baby stirred, a little. She came closer, moved by how gentle he was with the child.

"What'd you call it?"

"Him," she corrected. "Ned. Eddard. For my father."

"Ah. Guess makes sense," he rasped, before he was silent again. "Much more sense than me being a fucking septon."

"Are you?" Her voice was careful, calculated.

"Not anymore," he groaned. "Damn clansmen took care of that."

She nodded, and shivered a little, and tears started to fall on her face, inexplicably. "I thought you were dead."

"Well, I'm not. Couldn't come for you before, though," he grunted. "Damn vows and shit."

"Vows?" She couldn't help sounding both disappointed and impressed.

"Vows. But what's a dog to do? That or death, and being alive is always better, I figure." He stirred the fire, a little, with his free hand. There was a flash of blood on his arm.

"You're injured," she said, quietly, after a moment.

"I'll be fine. Leave it," he protested.

She frowned, and reached to look at it. "I can stitch you, if you want," she offered, after consideration. She was nibbling her lip, a little.

He didn't have it in him to refuse, and so she found the needle that was in the hem of her skirt, undid the thread from one of her sleeves, and set to the task. He could not help looking at her, though, and after a moment, he said, quietly, "You didn't flinch, little bird."

She nodded, didn't speak, for a bit. When she did, she told him, softly, "I have no reason to flinch, Hound."

Her breath was on the burnt side of his face, and he couldn't feel it. Perhaps he regretted that fact, because he turned a little towards her. It was easy, then, for her to brush her lips against his, hesitantly. He didn't react, at first, then he kissed her back, slowly, afraid to hurt her and not moving for fear of waking the baby in the crook of his good arm.

It was infinitely better than the one she'd imagined, so many years ago, in that other life, and Sansa closed her eyes with a soft, soft sigh.

She and Sandor were still kissing, and faintly, she heard the baby giggle. Perhaps this was the beginning of small mercies.


End file.
